Kind of Blue
by The Orange Lady
Summary: In which John has a new girlfriend and it's annoying. What will our consulting detective do about it?
1. Chapter 1 So what

Now then. This will eventually lead to some romance. But as I'm a sucker for the slowbuilding stuff, this might take a while. So, bear with me!

(Also, did I mention that bonus points are awarded to those who review and/or correct my quite awful english?)

**SO WHAT**

_In which there is a woman in the living room and Sherlock doesn't really give a shit._

John had brought home a new lady friend. Normally, this would not be a problem, but this woman was not like the other ones that had come and gone. Statistically Johns dates were approximately seven years younger than him, blonde, thin and would generally be considered quite attractive. This one wasn't like that. Sherlock could smell trouble coming his way.

She was sitting in his, Sherlock's, chair by the fireplace, waiting for John to get ready for a night out. It annoyed him. Sherlock was in the kitchen, squinting at her in silence and making his endless deductions. First of all, she was older than John, but only by a few years. This was a new thing, as the man seemed to only care for younger women. Also, she could not be deemed a classical beauty, and frankly, not a beauty at all. Her face was asymmetrical, one ear slightly higher up than the other, and her eyes was just a bit too far apart. She was wearing a practical and unflattering blouse and a knee long skirt that indicated a profession in the educational system. Sherlock found it tasteless. But there was that thing that he suspected John thought was charming. She was cute.

Getting rid of John's lady friends was an art form Sherlock had perfected over the years. He had designed and tried out quite a few strategies that were infallible. Sometimes he could scare them of in a day, sometimes he took his time. He experimented on them. It was actually quite fascinating, and Sherlock carefully logged his results for further reference. What exactly made the women tick? What would scare them off? How much could they take before giving up? But mainly, he had realized, it all was a part of his longest ongoing experiment: John.

It wasn't anything personal in it, he just wanted his friend unattached and available. Girlfriends got in the way. Working cases was so much easier with a military doctor as back up. And really, John didn't seem to mind, not in the long run at least. There would usually be a few awkward days of not talking, mood swings, and no tea, but then they were inevitably back to normal again. Until he brought home the next woman, of course. The procedure would be repeated every fourth month on average, Sherlock calculated.

Eventually John came down the stairs and the woman anxiously turned her head towards the door before he came into the room. When he did enter, her face broke up in a warm lopsided smile, and Sherlock could once and for all confirm that yes, she was cute. John smiled back with his patented flirty smile, and Sherlock cringed inwardly. Not again.

"Mary, have you met Sherlock, my flatmate?" said John and gesticulated warily towards the kitchen. She shook her head, not tearing her eyes from him.

"No, we have not met officially," Sherlock filled in, and advanced into the living room with all the grace and dignity he could muster while wearing his dressing gown. He shook the woman's hand, and John developed a worried look on his face. The woman Mary did not notice, and smiled back at him too.

"It's nice to finally meet you! John has been telling me horror stories about you, but you don't seem that bad, really! I'm looking forward to getting to know you!" At this Sherlock raised his left eyebrow at John, who refused to look up from the floor, ears reddening. He coughed.

"Well, we're off! I got us tickets to the Opera. Mary and I have been talking about it for ages. Don't wait up, Sherlock!" They put on their coats and left. John shot one last glance towards his flatmate as he closed the door behind them.

Sherlock stood by the window and saw them walk towards the tube, hand in hand. He sighed, relieved that they had gone. There clearly was something special about the daft woman and Johns irrational affection for her. She seemed unquestioning and loving in ways he suspected John secretly admired and longed for. This one would be troublesome to get rid of.


	2. Chapter 2 Freddie Freeloader

**FREDDIE FREELOADER**

_In which John is in love._

John was in the kitchen, making breakfast. The flat smelled of toast and Earl Grey. Sherlock stood in the hallway, watching him as he stretched to reach the cups at the top shelf and ransacked the fridge for butter and cheese. John was humming. He only hummed when he thought himself to be in love. This was getting serious.

"I made some toast for you too, you know." Sherlock wrinkled his nose, and entered the kitchen a bit unwillingly. Breakfast was something that happened to other people. He still did not fully understand how John could repeatedly fail to grasp that simple fact.

They sat down at the table, and they did not talk about the previous night with Mary at the Opera. John began to eat and read the morning newspaper, while Sherlock carefully sipped his tea. Hydration and warmth did wonders to his thought process. And his cold hands. Blood circulation was not to be underrated.

"Got any new cases?" John asked, munching away on his toast.

"You know I don't. Not even Lestrade can shake up a thing for me. He's giving me cold cases," he said with a sneer. "Cold cases, John. You know what that means!" It was really getting quite bad. The criminals of London had picked a hell of a time to become law-abiding citizens. Sherlock would do anything for a good old-fashioned murder mystery to keep his mind afloat. Leafing through reports of stolen cars and minor misdemeanours was not what anyone would call a challenge. He suspected that even the DI himself could solve them if he was given enough time.

"Oh," said John flatly, and turned a page. He was clearly working up to something of importance, that was for sure. "I won't be back to night. If anything pops up, just send a text or something. Let me know." And there it came.

"Spending the evening with Mary, I presume?" Sherlock knew the answer even before he asked, as it was quite obvious.

"Actually, yes," he answered slowly and smiled to himself, and Sherlock did not resist the urge to roll his eyes. This Mary woman again. He really had to sort her out, somehow.

"I think you'd like her, if you got to now her better. She really is a lovely person."

"Oh, John, I doubt that very much. You know my feelings towards that sort of people." Nice and lovely people was the worst kind he could imagine, apart from certain relations. And of course John knew that. If he hadn't, he would not have lasted as his flatmate for all those years, let alone the first week. So, he simply shrugged.

"Suit your self. You're the one missing out on good company." He took a swig from his teacup. "I really like her. I never thought I'd ever say this, but I think she just might be the one for me." Sherlock found the entire statement irrational and obnoxious, but he strategically shut up, since he knew that love was one of John's weak spots.

"We'll swing by the flat tonight, so I can get ready after work. Then we're off to dinner at some restaurant in Islington that she likes. She says it's the best Indian place in London. Try not to ruin anything in the living room while I'm out. It would be nice to present the girl with a nice and tidy flat for once. Do not touch the fridge. I repeat, not the fridge again! I'm using it for food!"

"If you wanted to be at work in time, you should have left fourteen minutes ago," Sherlock pointed out coldly, in an attempt to silence the elaborate dinner plans. He could not stand another word about the lovely Mary. It worked. John cursed and abruptly scampered off with his jacket in one hand and his half eaten toast in the other.

Solitude at last. He finished his tea and sat down in his armchair by the fireplace. It still smelled faintly of woman's perfume, jasmine. He fished up a file from the pile of unsolved cases that Lestrade had smuggled out to him from he archives, but he quickly lost interest. A pale sun shone in through the window, and Sherlock found himself wondering at the velocity of the illuminated particles of dust suspended in the air.


	3. Chapter 3 Blue in green

**BLUE IN GREEN**

_In which Sherlock is very rude to a perfectly nice woman and does not realize that he has an emotion, namely jealousy._

The doorbell rang at 6 p.m., and Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson fuss all the way down the stairs. He then heard cheery, if a bit forced, voices coming to a halt outside the door to the flat. There was a knock. Then Mrs Hudson exclaimed that she was going to get the spare keys to let her in. Sherlock did not move a centimetre from the lab equipment and did not look up as he heard the woman Mary enter the flat.

"Ah. Maya," he said with a tomblike voice. "John's not here." He could hear her fidgeting nervously in the hallway.

"It's Mary. And I know that he isn't here yet. He phoned me. Hello." Cautiously she came into the kitchen, and then sat down at the opposite side of the table. She still wore her tweed coat and red leather gloves, and clenched her purse close to her as a sort of shield. Sherlock could practically smell her almost nonexisting self-esteem.

"What are you doing?" she asked and tried her best to be as polite and British as possible. A certain amount of schoolteacher, determined to be accepting of all of even the weirdest children, shone through.

"I'm titrating human blood."

"Oh. Is it…?" She sounded faint, and Sherlock snorted at her in disdain.

"Yes, it is my own blood," he said. It was a standard follow up question he had found out through experience. People tended to be so uneasy around blood. Even at the morgue, which he found a bit silly. "It's a part of an ongoing experiment to produce an indicator that can detect even the smallest amounts of blood. Could prove useful in the field."

"So. Dinner at your place," he continued after a moment of awkward silence, still with a droning tone.

"Yes. John's going to cook for me. He's talked a lot about his special risotto Milanese, and I'm really looking forward to it." John cooking. Fancy that. If he was making his risotto, Sherlock had to move quickly. He decided to use a classic dirty tactic, that worked for jealous children of parents that brought home their new dates all over the globe.

"You know, I have wondered why he has waited so long to introduce us properly. Normally he would have gotten around to it much sooner." It was a lie, of course he knew why. The more John cared for a woman, the longer he waited to bring her back to Baker Street. But the line worked on Mary, as it had done on almost all of her predecessors. He let it sit in the woman's mind for a moment before he continued, to let it fester.

"In fact, I was very surprised when John decided to go out with you. He usually goes for younger women. They tend to be more…petite. Most of them have had actual careers, and all of them seems have had an interest in stylish clothes. He would never admit that such things are important to him, but just to let you know: they are. But, well, I suppose everyone needs to experiment now and then. Just to get it out of his system, if nothing else." He stopped for a breath, and snuck a quick peek at her face. She looked pale, tried to desperately hide her emotional discomfort and failed.

"You don't seem to like me that much," she said weakly, and the hurt was obvious in her voice. Good. If she was of the kind that acceptance and general friendliness were important to, this would not be as hard as he had anticipated. He continued with his dirty eightyearold tactic.

"Well," he began. "It's nothing personal, I don't really get attached to Johns girlfriends. They tend not to stay around for so long. Normally this is the point were I would warn you not to get too involved with him, but since you seem so happy that he's going to cook for you tonight…" He let it drift on purpose. Nothing worked as well as letting people fill in the blanks themselves. For some reason they always conjured up the worst possible scenarios in their minds. It was handy in some situations, and it always worked.

"I think I'd better go," Mary said as she rose hurriedly, and the chair she had been sitting on almost fell over. In the corner of his eye Sherlock saw that she wasn't far from crying. This was the fastest he had ever broken one of the girlfriends John brought home. Usually the women would get angry at this point, and tell him to stick it up you-know-where, and possibly slap him. This Mary really appeared to be the loyal and loving woman John had made her out to be. Maybe he had assessed the situation wrongly, and gone a bit too far with her. But, then again: mission accomplished. Sherlock knew she would not come back. When the door closed one last time behind her, he felt a pang of something, deep down in his stomach, but he dismissed it at emotional nonsense.

Sixteen minutes later John entered the flat, and from his laboured breathing and slightly red face Sherlock deduced that he must have jogged all the way from the tube. He was wearing his nice shirt, the blue one that Sherlock had given him as a Christmas present in self-defence. The man had no taste when it came to picking out clothes for himself, but at least he had the decency to recognize and appreciate a good fit when he saw it. The dark silky material fit snugly to his frame, and the top two buttons were undone. Sherlock knew that John thought it made him look more appealing. It did. Very much so.

"Where is Mary? She said she would be here," he said, slightly worried when he could not find her.

"She left," Sherlock answered, and tried his best not to let an ounce of guilt into his voice.

"What! When? Why?"

"Oh, she wouldn't wait for you, you missed her by just a few minutes. She seemed upset for some reason." John didn't say anything after that, but instantly stormed out of the apartment without getting his jacket.

(Pretty please, review?)


	4. Chapter 4 All Blues

**ALL BLUES**

_In which John reacts badly and things go to hell._

When John came back to the flat fortythree minutes later he was shuddering in his cold thin shirt, and he wore a dark expression that Sherlock assumed was his war face. That appearance had probably put fear in Afghani insurgents and British soldiers alike. It did not bode well. John faced him where he still sat on the stool in the kitchen, and Sherlock found he had to look up at his friend for once.

"You just had to do that, didn't you? Couldn't help yourself, right?" John was trying to be calm and contained, but failed miserably. He was positively fuming.

"Oh, don't even…"

"I'm just not allowed to have a girlfriend, am I?" John said angrily, cutting him off midsentence, and was as usual spot on.

"Of course, you are allowed to," said Sherlock, trying to mockingly pacify the man. "But you can't keep on dragging them into my life. You can't have them here in the flat. They get in the way of my work. They are a liability." John huffed.

"Now, see, that is just something you say! They are – Mary is my girlfriend, and I can't see how you can have anything to say about that. I want her in my life, thank you very much. Don't you think I see what you are doing? You've got a bloody system for this. I get to date a woman for a maximum of what, three weeks? And then you've scared her off. Would it kill you to let me have one single healthy relationship for once? You know, I like having a private life sometimes. It helps keeping the good things in my life clear from the mess that you always make of me. Honestly, I don't know why I've put up with this for so long. I really, really liked Mary. Couldn't you just have bloody well behaved for once?"

Sherlock found he could not reply in any dignified way, and thus shut up. Breathless and overwhelmed by the sudden silence, John took the opportunity to get up and leave. He ran upstairs, and slammed the door shut after him. And Sherlock knew better than to follow him.

Sherlock wandered around in the flat. He was annoyed. He ruffled the case files that were piled up high on the desk, and then shoved them aside forcefully. Everything had gone exactly as planned, but for some reason Johns anger struck him harder than expected, and he did not know why. It was no good. He could not get it out of his head. He had done this exact procedure nine times already, and John had gotten almost as upset as this for every one. So why would this one be different?

He didn't feel like playing the violin. But he just had to do something about the storm of thoughts that occupied his brain. Music helped him catalogue and clean up the mess. Shostakovich's second concerto for violin would do. Aggressively he rushed through the first movement and then went on. The music was chaos and order. Disharmonies overlapped and suddenly became pure, clear. His anger and confusion washed over him, and in the back of his head he kept saying Johns name over and over. He let the music flow through him, letting it form his thoughts.

The second movement, the Adagio, was slower and more melancholic, with long phrases in minor carrying on and on. He stalked across the room as he played, long steps matching the pace of the music. He missed their closeness. What wouldn't he give for them to crack inappropriate jokes at a crime scene again, or just collapse in the stairs together, sweaty and breathless after a chase? It had become normal for him, that basic human interaction. He had gotten used to being touched by him, brotherly pats on the back and that occasional touch of hands when reaching for the teapot that made his heart flutter. He had come to long for that. Now it was gone. Probably forever. He would not try to achieve it with another person, he decided. It would not be worth it.

The third movement was more aggressive, and he alternated between angrily sawing away on his violin and violently plucking at the strings. This was all Johns fault. How could he sneak his way into his life, and then expect that he would not care or ensure that he stayed there with him? This endless dating surely was Johns way of saying that he, Sherlock, always was his second choice, that he would abandon him the same moment he met that one woman that he thought was right for him. John was treacherous like that, first going to extreme lengths to get his trust and acceptance, and then subtly telling him he'd very much like to leave him. Sherlock was starting to regret letting him so damned close. Love was such an overrated and annoying aspect of the human condition.

Half way through the last part of the concerto he heard the door open slowly. He slammed the violin down on the desk, frustrated that his thought process had irrevocably been interrupted. He didn't dare to turn around, since he was certain that his face showed a storm of naked emotion. But he knew instantly who it was, by the faint breathing and the hesitant lingering in the doorway. John.

(Hugs for the reviewers out there! You make my day! And seriously people, listen to Dmitri Shostakovich. The man's a genious.)


	5. Chapter 5 Flamenco Sketches

**FLAMENCO SKETCHES**

_In which things are at risk and there is talk of feelings._

John sat down quietly on the sofa and looked wearily at him, where he stood by the desk, still clutching the neck of his violin. The silence that followed was not intense but it was obvious that something needed to be said, even to Sherlock. Just when he had decided to speak up, John did.

"Why must you always do this? Mary will probably never see me again after this," he said, and he sounded genuinely tired. "I tried to phone her, but, well, what can you expect?" He trailed off, and Sherlock started to inspect the rug very closely. He was aware that John was watching him intently, but for some reason he couldn't look up, couldn't meet his gaze. Slowly he let go of the violin and went to sit on the sofa, as far away from John as possible on the small furniture. His head was bent down, and did his best to not fidget too noticeably. He had no idea how or where to begin.

"What was that music you were playing earlier? I wouldn't call it beautiful, but it was intense. I liked it," John said lamely, probably just to break the silence, but Sherlock knew that he meant it. He always did. John was good in that way. No falsities, no nonsense. Honest.

Sherlock knew he had to do something about what happened with Mary. He felt that this conflict could and probably would make a wedge between them, destroy some fundamental things that could not be repaired. Like the mutual trust that came so naturally to them from the very first day they had met. They always had each other's back, no matter what. Or the fact that they could speak plainly and Sherlock never had to fear alienating himself from lack of understanding the human condition. Or teatime. Such things could not be jeopardized.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, barely audible. Apologies usually helped situations like this even if they were not wholeheartedly admitted, he recalled. "I didn't know she'd be so susceptible to my comments."

"Sherlock Holmes apologizing," John sniggered bleakly and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, I suppose there must be a first time for everything." He paused and thought for a moment before speaking up again, his face alight with emotion.

"Coming from you, that means a lot. I can't let you off that easily, but you know. If you do that again, I swear I'll have your head on a bloody plate." He spoke kindly but seriously, and Sherlock could instantly tell that he wasn't angry with him anymore. Things were not all right, but at least there was that.

But he still felt like explaining himself further. For some inexplicable reason he just had the urge to expose all of his stunted little emotions to John. It was frustrating and unnatural to him, and damned if he knew why. But he figured that if he had already let the floodgates open like that, to hell with embarrassment and inhibitions, he might as well do it thoroughly. He steeled himself, and spoke once more.

"John, about earlier. When I said that I was fine about you having girlfriends, I might have been manipulating the truth somewhat…"

"Well. Okay. I get it. We're good now." Sherlock was confused. This would not do, he simply could not leave it at that vague comment. "Good" was not enough to summarize the situation. He needed more than that.

"But…" he feebly tried to interject.

"Alright. Leave it be. We're good. That's what matters," John cut him off and rose from the sofa. Sherlock peeked at his back as he walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. How could a small man like that pry his way into his life and be so infuriatingly confusing and so easily drag feelings out of him that he himself barely knew existed?

Sherlock went over what had been said in his head. Was this "good" like in "good to talk, now get out of my life", or as in "good, we've sorted things out and will continue to be friends", or was it something else entirely? Did this mean they were back to their pre-Mary friendship with bad jokes and John making him tea in the morning and sitting close on the sofa, or was this the civil but definite end to all that? He felt his mouth go dry, and his heart was definitely in great danger of stopping entirely.

(Sorry for the wait, exams and life in general got in the way. And thanks again for all of the lovely comments!)


	6. Chapter 6 Flamenco Sketches Alt Take

**FLAMENCO SKETCHES, ALTERNATE TAKE**

_In which certain things come to light, and everything turns out better than expected in the end._

Hurriedly he scrambled to rise from the sofa, his longs legs almost tangling themselves together and making him fall over, and stalked after John into the kitchen. He stopped by the table and held on to a chair, knuckles going white, inwardly debating what exactly he needed to say. Nothing seemed to be efficient and specific enough, and he had no idea where to begin.

"John," he croaked, without having sufficiently prepared a query, and turned to face the man. "I need you to define 'good'."

He was met with a concerned stare. John seemed almost surprised, like he had not expected them to continue the conversation. Maybe he thought that even Sherlock would have the wits to stay away from such an infected topic. Sherlock watched him anxiously over his shoulder while he thought things over.

"When I said 'good' I meant that I think that I understand what you want with all of this. You want me all to yourself, don't you? You're not used to sharing, friends least of all. I guess it's silly of me not to have realized that earlier," John said carefully, weighing each word before saying it. And then, because he obviously saw something odd in Sherlock's face: "Unless there is another reason for all of this? You know, apart from me having a taste for women you find really annoying?"

Sherlock stood frozen by the table, and went over the conversation in his mind, analysing it from every angle he could find. What could he possibly be driving at? Should he respond honestly, explain why exactly he wanted John for himself, and that he needed him close to function optimally? Sherlock had previous experience, if not first hand, with that sort of confessions, and normally they ended in disaster. When those experiences related to him, they often involved him awkwardly declining offers or just denying their existence. Sometimes he could bully the person around which could be very useful, like poor Molly Hooper at the mortuary. But being on the opposite side of this was frustrating! Too much was at stake for him to be entirely comfortable with it. While he had some ideas on how John might react, there was no way for him to be sure. And real life was not like those overly romantic TV shows that Mrs Hudson liked, where such declarations were always accepted so easily. Whatever he did, there was a grim outlook.

"I might have developed a certain partiality to you," he said simply and then resolutely stared back at John, decided on literally facing whatever reaction he would have. If Sherlock wanted, he could make use of small words and give them a lot of meaning. Simplicity was always the best method of communication, after all. He knew that John would understand what he meant. Suddenly he was very aware of how close they were standing. While the kitchen wasn't too small, it seemed as if the walls were closing in on them, threatening to fall over and crush them. The only thing he found he could focus on was John, and the rest faded away, became blurry and unimportant. The first reaction that crossed Johns face was expected and easy to read: puzzlement.

He seemed to be in deep thought for a moment, but then things changed quicker than Sherlock had anticipated. To his surprise, John screwed up his face in a weird manner, and his expression became more complicated and unreadable. Sherlock prided himself on having observed and catalogued a majority of John's different expressions, but this was entirely new. All of the anger and tired disappointment from before washed away. John smiled a true smile, and Sherlock was hoping that he was right in detecting some deeper sentiment.

"Oh Sherlock, sometimes I wonder if you might be more human than you think," John chuckled nervously, but obviously relieved over something. He continued to make his tea, getting his mug and teabags out of the cupboard. "You could have told me earlier, you know."

"Oh."

Sherlock was dumbfounded. Was it really going to be that easy? Surely there had to be a catch somewhere. John couldn't have understood what he was saying. He was even continuing brewing his stupid tea without a hesitation or a pause for consideration of what had been said. Good old John, always thinking the best of people. That must've been it. Now came the excruciating part of explaining it to him again with even plainer words. As a confession he knew it was rushed and stupid, but he hated not knowing. He just had to be sure of this.

"Do you want some tea? There's enough water for another cup," John said, with the kettle in one hand and his beloved St Barts mug in the other.

"You do realize that I just said that I…" Sherlock stumbled angrily over the words, having not ever had said anything of the sort and meant it before. "That I think I love you? That I might be in love with you?"

John set down the kettle on the table and stood in front of him. He let his hand slowly wander up to Sherlock's. The first warm touch of stubby fingers against the back of his hand made Sherlock tense up and sent shivers down his spine. Of course they had touched each other before, but never so intentionally and so purposefully. A thumb traced his wrist, and to Sherlock it felt like it was the only important thing happening in the entire world at that precise moment.

"Yes, Sherlock, I do understand that. I'm not that stupid," John said with a low tone and edged closer.

"So?" He could barely contain himself at that point and had to struggle to keep his composure. Having John standing so close and holding his hand was not helping either. Sherlock was hyperaware of his presence, and was oh so close to some sort of sensory overload. He could practically hear his heartbeat, smell his infuriating scent, and taste his breath. And he could definitely not bear to look up at his face.

"This is all very sudden," John said and furrowed his brow as he thought, but the wonderful smile did not leave his face entirely.

"Yes," was all Sherlock could utter, and he stopped breathing momentarily.

"It is very flattering. But, truth to be told, I shouldn't be that surprised. It's not really a big step, considering that we've been living together for a while and catches criminals like we're in a bloody film or something."

"Yes."

"You know, I don't think I' have any problems with this."

"This?"

"This. You and me. Us."

"Are you certain?" Sherlock asked in disbelief, his voice a lot smaller and shakier than he had intended. He felt his ears turn a bright red shade.

"Yes, well, do I have any choice? I've gotten used to you and your nutty ways, I don't think that I could make it without you. Anyways, I don't seem to be able to hold on to any girlfriends for some reason, so I figure I might as well settle for you."

Sherlock was not entirely sure whether to be happy or to be irritated from being made fun of. He was not even sure of if this was John accepting his feelings, or if it was a humorous and sadistic way of shrugging it off. In fact, he had no idea on how to proceed from there. He could see on John's face that he saw his uncertainty. He tried to make his retreat and pried his hand away from John's, even though it almost hurt him physically to do so. But John would not have any of it.

"Damnit, Sherlock! How many times do I have to tell you?" he said and took a firm grip on his head with both hands and pulled him down. As they kissed fireworks went off in Sherlock's mind.

THE END

_"So yes, I know that love is unconditional. But I also know that it can be unpredictable, unexpected, uncontrollable, unbearable and strangely easy to mistake for loathing." _

_Stardust, by Neil Gaiman (the film, not the book)_

(So, that's the end of my first series. Thanks for the support from all reviewers, couldn't have finished without you cheering on!)


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